


A Small Delay

by MilkyMint



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, No Plot, between 159 and 160, chicken soup for the me, meaning i am sick and using it for Art, written on location
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21833248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilkyMint/pseuds/MilkyMint
Summary: On their travel up north Martin gets sick and Jon takes care of him. That's it.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 12
Kudos: 121





	A Small Delay

The small town isn't supposed to be an overnight stop, the plan is to just change trains there. But when Martin walks into a glass door at full speed, Jon realised the plan has to change.  
Martin tries to laugh it of, but can't hide the feverish sheen over his eyes. When Jon puts the back of his hand to his forehead, he realizes that Martin is burning up.  
It's a gloomy day, dark and drizzling, and the streets are almost empty. Luckily so is the small bed and breakfast two streets from the station, and they get a room without a problem. The bored teenage girl manning the reception doesn't even ask for ID, which Jon is very thankful for. As far as he can tell, there hasn't been any news coverage about whatever happened back at the institute. Probably all sectioned off and hidden away. But he still wants to travel as far under the radar as possible.  
Martin lets himself be led up the stairs in a slow lumber, taking every step with great care. Once they reach the landing he leans against the wall, trying hard and failing just as hard to look casual.  
"What are we doing here?" he asks while Jon compares the number on their key to the little directional plaque next to the doors.  
"Getting you some sick leave," Jon answers and opens the left door into a narrow corridor with two more doors and more needlepoint on the walls than is justifiable.  
He moves in and tries to pull Martin along, but Martin is standing rooted to the spot.  
"That's stupid. I'm not sick, " Martin insists, his face determined. "I don't get sick. We don't have time for me to be sick."  
"Martin, you can barely think straight. You need to rest."  
"Of course I can think! Ask me anything."  
"What is 13 times 17?"  
Martin just sways for a moment and Jon reaches out to steady l him. He's painfully aware that if Martin collapses, there is nothing he can do about it.  
"Okay, that doesn't count. I wouldn't know that either way."  
They make it to their room with a lot of pulling and semi-gentle insistance. Jon gets Martin to sit down on the big double bed with the floral patterned bedspread, and drops their bags in a corner.  
The room is overstuffed with kitsch, the nightstands on each side of the bed have little figurines next to the shaded lamps, there are more needlepoints on the floral patterned wall, a small bedoilied table in front of the window with the drawn and, of course, floral patterned curtains, and a door that probably leads to floral patterned bathroom.  
Jon checks the bathroom, same over decorated ambience, but vaguely ocean-flavored for variety. Nothing immediately out to kill them.  
When he comes back, Martin has fallen over on the bed, one hand raised to cover his eyes. Jon turns the lights in the bedroom off, so only the light from the bathroom shines through the open door. Martin makes a small appreciative noise.  
There's a glass on the bathroom sink, probably ment for toothbrushes. Jon fills it up with water and puts it on the nightstand, after displacing a vaguely dog shaped ceramic.  
Martin doesn't open his eyes, but raises his hand to wave at him vaguely.  
"It's fine, I'm just going to sleep. You should go to work, I'll be fine on my own. Just.. Fine."  
“Martin, what do you think is happening here?"  
Martin opens his eyes, squints up at him. "Jon?" he ask, as if he's surprised to see him.  
"Yes."  
"Oh, right. You're not going back to work then?"  
"Not anytime soon. Our boss is evil, remember?"  
"Yeah, yeah of course."  
Martin sinks back into the pillow.  
"So what are we going to do? "  
"You get some sleep, and I'll go and get you some ibuprofen or something."  
"Don't bother, I got some. It's in my worm bag."  
"Your what?"  
"Like a bug out bag but... worms."  
Jon rifles through the duffle bag Martin brought. He'd been impressed that it had only taken Martin a minute to throw a runaway kit together, but of course it makes more sense that he'd been prepared for this. In comparison Jon is traveling with the clothes he left on the couch to fold later, stuffed in his old uni backpack. Soon he'll have to make a choice about wearing matching socks or wearing clean socks.  
He hands Martin a faded and baggy t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, puts the other clothes, the folder of documents, the pack of sticky notes, and the corkscrew to the side. At the bottom of the bag he finds a clear box full of medical supplies, all sorted into small compartments.  
He can't tell which one is the Ibuprofen right away, the pills are all stacked in their little plastic strips, and he has to squint at the small print in the semi darkness.  
He turns to Martin for help, but while Martin has managed to change pants, he is silently struggling with pulling his shirt over his head.  
“Martin, that's a button up.”  
Martin makes a frustraded noise, but starts unbuttoning his shirt.  
“Why do I even have these? It's such a hassle. ”  
“Dress code?” Jon muses, and keeps going through the pills. Of course the very next ones are what he's looking for.  
Martin has freed himself from his shirt and is pulling on the t-shirt. “Yes, but it's not like Peter would have fired me. I was too important to fire. Irreplaceable is what I am.” he mutters from what might have been a spaceship a dozen washes ago.  
“Of course you are.” Jon waves the ibuprofen at him.  
“How many of these do you need?”  
“Is it the big ones or the small ones?“  
“It says 200. That's a lot right?“  
“No, that's the small ones. Give me two.“  
Martin swallows the pills and drains the glass in one big gulp. Jon takes the empty glass, refills it, and puts it on the table, next to where Martin has already cocooned himself in the covers and the bedspread.  
“You try and sweat this out," he says to the small patch of face poking out, "or sleep it off, or whatever helps. I'll see if I can find some food.“  
Martin mumbles something in reply, and Jon leans down. Even so Martin's repeat is almost to quiet and muffled to make out.  
“Can you stay? Until I'm asleep?“  
Jon knows without wanting to that this is a request Martin has only made four times since he was nine years old, and that is was never granted. He also knows that he is never ever going to bring it up. He forces a smile that Martin can't see, but hopefully hear. “Of course.“  
He settles on the other side of the bed, one hand where he thinks Martin's shoulder should be in the pile of blankets.  
I takes Martin five minutes to doze off. Jon waits another fifteen, just to be sure. He moves around the room as quiet as he can, but pauses before actually leaving. He doesn't like the idea of Martin waking up groggy and alone in a strange room.  
He takes the sticky notes and writes in big, blocky letters that even a hazy mind should be able to read:  
'Be right back, getting soup'  
He hesitates for a moment, then adds 'Love, Jon' and sticks it on the waterglass.  
The receptionist is bored enough to be enthusiasticly helpful, and thirty minutes, a trip to the supermarket, and some unofficialy endorsed use of the kitchen later, Jon is in possession of a thermos flask of chicken stock and a flower patterned mug.  
Martin is still asleep. Asleep again, Jon corrects himself, when he sees that the glass is once again empty, and the note is no longer on it, instead it is clutched in Martin's hand.  
He leaves the thermos and mug on the table and goes to check Martin's temperature again. Still hotter than he'd like, but the medicine seems to be helping.

When he goes into the bathroom to refill Martin's glass, there is a taperecorder balancing on the sink. Jon sighs, brings the glass into the bedroom, and comes back with the oher bag he brought with him. The tote must have belonged to Melanie, the “Ghost Hunt UK” Logo is stenciled on the side. Jon doesn't feel too guilty about taking it, it was just lying around in the breakroom. She probably would appreciate that he used it to steal from the institute. There's nothing special about the statements, just a few he didn't feel particulary drawn too, but real enough that they resisted being digitalized. He hadn't even really planned to use them for any sort of escape plot, he just felt a little better knowing that if he really needed them, they'd be at home.  
Jon pulls one out of the bag at random, opens the file and begins to read.

When he's finished the tape recorder clicks off on it's own. Jon stares at it for a few seconds, half expecting it to evaporate into thin air. When it doesn't he just shrugs and puts the used file at the end of the stack.  
The bedroom is still quiet. Martin is breathing steadily, although he has spread out like a starfish over the entire bed. Jon grimaces at the thought of finding some space to sleep in there himself. The usual procedure of just nudging Martin with his elbow with increasing intensity seems inappropriate while the man is sick.  
There's a faint click and Jon tuns his head sharply. There is a recorder on the nightstand. He glares at it and moves to at least throw it under the bed, but as he reaches out Martin opens his eyes.  
"Hi Jon."  
He drops his outstretched hand, recorder forgotten for the moment.  
"Hey Martin."  
"Did you find any soup?"  
"It was a harrowing journey, but I managed. Do you want some?"  
Martin closes his eyes, thinks for a minute.  
"Yeah, " he finally answers, slowly shifting up.  
“Allright, let me just check first... .”  
Jon turns the lamp on, pointedly ignoring the recorder next to it. In the orange glow, Martin looks almost healthy, albeit a bit squinty at the sudden light. He still looks tired, and his shirt is damp with sweat. The rest has definitely done him good though, and his eyes have lost that feverish look. Jon reaches out to check the temperature, then thinks better of it. Instead he lightly settles is hand on Martin's cheek (warm, but no longer burning), leans in and presses his lips against Martin's forehead.  
“Fever is down.” Jon says softly as he pulls away. He can feel Martin flushing under his hand.

Martin blinks at him for a few seconds, then grins. “You know, you don't have to make up excuses to kiss me.”  
His expression turns serious again. “Allthough it is bad audio”, he adds with a glance at the taperecorder.  
Jon reaches over without looking, grabs the recorder, brings it close between them and speaks directly into the microphone.  
“Deal with it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)  
> Like to sent good vibes, comment to sent me some soup!


End file.
